


Come Back from Far Away

by LMX



Category: Prison Break
Genre: Airport Reunion, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Except for Ramal, Homosexuality, It's classic, M/M, Political Asylum, Refugees, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-26
Updated: 2017-06-26
Packaged: 2018-11-19 10:54:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11311923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LMX/pseuds/LMX
Summary: All Sid really wants is his family, but if he can't have them he'll settle for somewhere where he can live his life and love who he wants to love without fear of repercussions.





	Come Back from Far Away

**Author's Note:**

> Title from U2, the Refugee.
> 
> I apologise in advance if I have misrepresented any part of this undoubtedly harrowing process. It was not my intention to in any way make it seem like an easy thing to do. I put off writing this for a long time as I haven't got even the slightest bit of life experience to make this something I can talk about, but no one else appears to be writing it, so...
> 
> I put this out there as a challenge for other people to write it better. Give Sid some words.

He'd not been conscious for the escape from Sana'a; not even sure how it had happened, only that he had been taken from the fighting, away from his family and his home (his beloved family, he had no idea if they were even alive).

The fear he had felt in Ogygia was beyond anything he had imagined in his life, and while he had been there, he had dreams where a single step outside those walls took him to a place where everything was perfect and beautiful and safe again, as it had been in his youth. Like the terror that stalked Sana'a's streets was simply a symptom of his imprisonment.

Other days he knew that escape, or even release, was an impossible dream. He would not... he *could* not survive this place.

When Kaniel Outis had come to speak with him, his name had already been known to Sid, heard in whispers on the street and accusations on the TV in those half-remembered years before Sid's life had ended and Ogygia had claimed him. Kaniel had been in solitary in his first weeks of hell, while Sid struggled to find a place where he felt safe enough to close his eyes (but not sleep, there was so little sleep there at first). Kaniel had been in Ogygia, and in solitary for a long time it seemed, and there was a great deal of disruption on the day that he was released. And afterwards, his life there changed.

It wasn't a good life, but through wit and scam Kaniel had staked his claim on a cell and filled it with those he chose, those he trusted, and inside those walls his word was scripture, and inside those walls Sid was safe to sleep.

That impossible man - a contradiction of a man, with Ramal as his esteemed brother and Sid as his protected cellmate - had given him a chance, had helped him escape onto the streets of Sana'a, and then a chance more as Ramal had died, and a chance more as they had escaped the ruined hospital.

Chances taken until all chances were spent - he'd seen that film, and he'd cried and tried to hide it until he saw how many others were crying with him. The girl sat beside him had seen that he was alone and had held his hand until the end, and waved off his apologies when he'd explained he did not want to go and get lunch with her afterwards.

He'd nearly told her. He'd thought about telling her. Kaniel's madness was contagious.

He'd woken in a field hospital on the Saudi side of the border, sure that he had been embraced by Death but somehow still breathing. He felt heavy, like someone (Maseeh) was sleeping on his chest, and so very tired. Doctors and nurses ebbed and flowed around him, speaking every language under the sun and smiling even when he couldn't find the energy to reply to the questions he understood.

It was weeks later when he woke again in a real hospital, and he was given papers and told that his refugee status was safe for now, and that there were too many displaced people to be able to find his family but that their names would be taken and added to a database so that one day they might be reunited.

He slept, he healed, he moved into a building with a massive dormitory, rows and rows of beds, and waited for news. He felt exposed at first in a space so large, with so many people, but no one knew him here, and that gave him a security he had not felt in a long time. He slept more, and healed more.

There were volunteers who came to speak to him, and those who lived with him, to advise them on filing their paperwork and to talk to them about home. Many were Yemeni people who now lived in Saudi, who told him frankly of the ways that things were different here, of the trouble finding jobs for the people escaping the civil war, and of suspicion and distrust as overcrowding invited crime and misbehaviour.

He told them that he had been imprisoned, because it seemed wrong to hide something that might be so easily uncovered, and perhaps because - having escaped prison and almost certain death - he was floating free of fear, but he didn't offer the reasons why. A note was taken, but no action.

A man came and asked them to write down their dreams, their aspirations, and he told the group about wanting to find his father and his sister, about Lincoln Burrows and Whip who had no second name and Ja who was from Korea. He didn't dare mention Kaniel Outis. The man looked at him with sadness and asked - if none of these people can be found, what would he do then?

He left before Sid had an answer, but the question lingered for many days afterwards. In the end he knew that the answer was that he wanted to live somewhere that he could be himself, and find some peace with what had happened. He wanted to find someone to love, who would love him, and would not be afraid.

He tried to explain the bare bones of this desire to the volunteer without revealing himself, but couldn't find the words. So he told them that he wanted to study engineering and work in a place where he could build things and talk to other people about the things that they had built.

Perhaps he had found enough words (his rushing heart told him he had found too many words), because later that day he had a flyer pressed into his hands that said that no one who loved should be judged for the way in which they loved, and that there were groups of people who could help him. That there were places where he could be taken in, if he had patience and persistence. There was a life for him.

It took two years, writing letters and finding work and returning to the bed that was his and the few room mates around his age that were slowly becoming friends and the locked trunk that held his life. It had little enough inside, but he was young and he worked hard and so little by little he found he could put aside some money. Once he had held his job for three months, a group of them banded together to rent a tiny apartment. In many ways it was even more crowded than the dormitories, but there was a kitchen that they shared and that meant they could cook their own meals, and a bathroom with a lock that was the height of luxury.

When he finally received a letter that included an instruction to buy a plane ticket and the name of the person he should send the flight details to - the one who would meet him on his arrival in the US - he took it to his closest friend and pressed it into her hands. He didn't think about the header on the paperwork, the rainbow declaring its intent, he just needed to have someone know.

She cried, first, and then hugged him, pressing the letter down on the table to avoid crushing it between them. When they parted, she lifted it to read it again, and then traced her fingers over the logo. "You should have told me," she chided. "I would have wanted to know."

"Forgive me," he asked, his heart as light as air.

"Of course," she smiled. "Always."

He sighed, pressed his hand against the letter, just to check that it was still there, that it was still real. "What do I do?"

"What do you mean, 'what do I do'," she mocked him. "You book a flight. I have some money set aside, and we can borrow Qadir's car."

"But my family..." he pressed.

"They would rather see you safe and happy than spending the rest of your life trapped here as you wait for news. Offers like this do not come a second time, Siddiq, don't you dare miss it."

He books a ticket, with shaking hands and all the money he has saved. He has a visa that had come with the letter, and a formal looking document with stamps and seals that the officer studies carefully before handing back. Sid doesn't snatch it from him, but only because he is trying not to draw too much attention to himself. They throw him a party at the house, and he apologises for leaving them a housemate short until they say they are already lining up interviews and will he just leave already? It's a night of laughter and joy and he promises more letters and postcards than he will ever be able to afford to send.

He steps off the plane into the cold air conditioned lounge, his stomach like lead. He has to pass through immigration before he will find the man with his name on a sign who will take him to the halfway house owned by the charity that has brought him here. There is every chance that this is as far into America as he will get, if there is a problem with his visa or his immigration paperwork. He has the number for a lawyer - a precaution, the paperwork said. The man looming in front of him looks bigger than Lincoln Burrows, and more terrifying.

He thinks he might be sick, as he hands over the papers. He can see how his hands are shaking, see where his sweat has warped the paper. It's examined carefully, every word read. Then it's handed back to him.

He stares at it, briefly. Is this his dismissal? Is this where he is seized by guards or turned back around to get back onto the plane he has so recently disembarked. The guard clears his throat, and nods through the gate. "Go on," he urges.

Sid's knees shake. He takes a step, and then another. He won't run (that would be so stupid), but he wants to run. He walks until he reaches the other side, and keeps walking until he is filtering out into the crowd of people. He forgets that he's looking for his name; there is less air conditioning here and more people and he feels faint from that first tiny interaction and here there are so many more people.

The impact, when it comes, comes with a shriek. He's nearly bowled to the floor, but there are strong hands there to catch him and gather him up, and by the time he's realised what's going on he's in the arms of his sister and his father. He sinks to the floor as his legs give way, and Rabia follows him down as his father rests his hands on his shoulders. He's whispering prayers and kissing their hands and crying and he feels like every eye is on him.

They gather him to his feet, and he finds Kaniel and Lincoln nearby, and a young man holding a sign with his name who he has never met, but whose hair and shirt both declare his identity in rainbow colours. Their eyes meet, and they both blush.

"Are you okay?" the young man asks, quietly. "They just turned up, I don't know..."

And then everyone is laughing, and trying to explain all at once, and Sid is still crying and so is Rabia and so nothing makes any sense.

Sid reaches out, and Kaniel steps forward to take his hand. He doesn't pull him out of his family's grasp, but meets his eyes and holds them as he shakes his hand. He looks so full of joy, and Sid knows the look is reflected in his eyes.

"Welcome home," he says, and Sid can only nod.

America isn't perfect. Some of it is beautiful and some of it isn't, and some of it is safe and some of it isn't, but here is his father and his sister, and the life that he had always wanted for himself. Maybe it isn't yet, but it will be, home.


End file.
